Portal Mortal, Part 3

If you haven’t yet read the first two installments, this post will make more sense after you have gone back and read Parts One and Two.

Image from Global Good Awards.

“It sounds like a utopia,” I said. Hargon looked puzzled. “I mean, a perfect society. Did you never fight or disagree, or have some get wealthy at the expense of the others?” “Yes, in earlier times,” they replied. “We had all those problems.” “How did you solve them?” I asked. Hargon said, “We had a very large island, something like your Australia or Antarctica. We asked the reasonable, helpful people living there to move to other parts of our world and gave them homes, work, care. Then we moved the troublemakers – the greedy, the fighters, the always-angry – to the now-empty island. We said they could do whatever they wanted – winner take all, is that not how you Earthlings say it? But they could not leave or spread their bad feelings to the rest of the world. They took the deal.” “So you too sent your convicts to Australia?”, I joked. I had to explain that reference.

Hargon’s language differed from English in a striking way. It did not differentiate between nouns and verbs. A person, to Hargon, was a “personing,” someone acting as an individual being. A book was not only an object made of paper and cloth, but “a booking” – an active embodiment of what a book could do. I imagined visiting a store where various bookings waved their pages at me langourously, inviting me to couple my mind to their beauties. Obviously, a river was not only a geographical and ecological feature, it was something close to a “water-flowing-down.” I asked Hargon about their device, and we established that it was an “question-answering.”

I also asked the Big Question. How could Haargongo on, the last representative of what sounded like a fine race of beings on Arkhnol, and not be overwhelmed by grief and loss? Most humans in their situation would have committed suicide. Why did they not just stay and die on the new planet with their compatriots? “I am still curious, still learning. This universe is full of gifts,” Hargon said. “I want someone else to know my people’s story. That is you. Also, my fellows are gone in physical ways—I cannot touch them. But they still speak to me, advise me, urge me not to give up.”

He touched his forehead. “Perhaps other beings can learn something good from our ways.” “I’ll say,” I said. “Humans have not done a great job learning to live with one another and all the life forms around them.“

One day, I found a very oversized Buffalo Sabres sweatshirt that a carpenter had left at my place. Hargon put it on to hide their tentacle, and donned a hat and sunglasses to pass, at a distance, for human. We went for a drive around my neighbourhood, passing few other vehicles, and stopping only at uninhabited spots. Along the way I named points of interest – a church, a limestone quarry, a llama farm, an abandoned hippy geodesic dome, Hargon nodding and sometimes making notes on their device. I wondered about its batteries, but it seemed to be powered by some self-renewing power source.

They enjoyed the Sunday drive, asking if we could do another “wheeling” in a little while. I said yes, but added that we had to be careful to keep his existence unknown to others. Our quiet companionship would be ruined the instant politicians, scientists, conspiracy therapists, and the media learned there was an alien living among them. He would be an object of scrutiny by everyone, constantly pestered with questions, no longer having the time and space to be just my friend.

Hargon understood. For the same reasons, we agreed that, should any unexpected visitors arrive – sales representatives, census-takers, lost tourists, missionaries – Hargon would wait in a room upstairs while I politely eased them outside. Hargon and Kit accompanied me when other visitors arrived at the portal. We knew they were unlikely to want publicity themselves.

Our household evolved into a routine. Most days, I’d put in a few hours of trading, so there was income to pay bills and buy groceries. Hargon would take walks around my property, wearing his “human” costume. They spent a lot of time on mysterious project on their device.

Occasionally, we’d venture out on a more ambitious drive. He wanted to see what a city looked like, so I took him to the nearest one of any size. He stayed in the car, but was fascinated by the houses, the buildings, the shops and the very busyness of the place compared with our tranquil rural retreat.

After a few more weeks, Hargon’s health began to decline.They were short of breath, and their olive skin was taking on a greenish tinge. I asked if I should try to find a doctor who would take on such an exotic patient. They said no. “I think there is something missing — from the atmosphere, or my food back home — that I cannot get here. It is like, what do you call them, your whitamins?” “Vitamins,” I replied. Hargon continued, “But I think no doctor could know what to do about me, or my problem. Also, even the best one could not keep quiet about the experience of treating an alien being, could they?”

I agreed, sadly. Once it became clear Hargon was not going to heal from whatever was afflicting them, they asked me do two things. “Once I die, please put my body in the earth under the Shading.” This was an elm tree, one of the few left on my land, that Hargon loved to sit under. I nodded, too choked up to add anything. “And my other request is this. I have finished the story of my people, the Arkhnolis. It is on my device, and I will show you how to open and share it.” “What do you want me to do with it?” I asked. “I leave that to you. I wish you to watch it, of course. But as for the rest of your people, you can decide whether to share it with them once I am gone,” they said.

Hargon died several days later.I carried out their burial request. That night, I looked up at the blue-black sky, studded with glowing stars and planets, and wondered how many other places contained beings like my friend. Once my emotions have settled somewhat, I’ll watch his history. And I will mourn, but not only for my wife.